


love it when you need me

by miscreants



Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, Butt Plugs, Cock Rings, Dom/sub, M/M, Orgasm Control, Porn With Plot, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:08:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25773373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miscreants/pseuds/miscreants
Summary: “I just can’t believe shesaidthat,” Quentin says again, because he’s on a roll now. He fumbles with the glass he’s trying to pick up from the table. He just wants to bring it back to the bar. Be nice.Alicewould always say he was being rude. “Like— Like me not wanting to— To push her around was grounds enough to end athree year relationship.And, like, who’s to say she always gavemewhat I wanted? Like, maybeIwant to be pushed around. Did she ever considerthat?”Or: Quentin goes to a nightclub. Penny watchesWhat We Do In the Shadows.Margo lurks at nerd bars.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 131
Kudos: 343





	love it when you need me

**Author's Note:**

> HEY HI HELLO OH BOY.
> 
> so this fic is a completely indulgent project that took my time away from "illusion". whoops. but i really hope you like this absolute MONSTER of a fic.
> 
> this was remixed from a fic i have loved for over 10 years. if you can guess what fandom/which fic it was, you'll get a prize, seriously. i'm not sure the author is even on here/if the fic exists outside of livejournal, but. BASICALLY, i pulled the inspiration for the plot from another fic and ran with it in my own quentin/eliot way.
> 
> PLEASE PAY ATTENTION TO TAGS AND NOTE: THIS IS A UNIVERSE IN WHICH SEX WORK IS LEGAL (AS IT DAMN WELL SHOULD BE). eliot is a sex worker, kind of. !! (stop reading here if you don't want spoilers) !! he works as a professional Dom at a BDSM club-- quentin, in the fic, plays submissive to him. 
> 
> OKAY, i think that's all you need to know. just, again, be warned: BDSM AHEAD. it's there. we're doing it. we're playing the feud.
> 
> OH, AND NOTE: this fic has only been lightly betaed. all mistakes are my own. feel free to drag me.
> 
> and if your name rhymes with fail grapplemen, please dear god stay far away from this.

Alice plays the hilarious joke of breaking up with him like, three days before his birthday. 

“She said—” The liquid hits the back of Quentin’s throat, sickly sweet. It’s almost like cough syrup, it’s so thick with grenadine and simple syrup. There’s got to be a bartender out there, somewhere, who knows the perfect balance of sweet and not liquid candy. James snorts as he coughs, and Quentin flips him off with one gesticulating hand. “She _said_ I wasn’t— Like, I wasn’t rough enough with her. In bed.” 

“Oh, Q,” Julia says. She’s sympathizing with him, of course she is, but she’s also giving him a look that means _you’ve drank too much._ It’s only his third round, each drink getting progressively worse and worse— and more expensive. He’s pretty sure James paid a cool $14 for this monstrosity called _Sauron’s Eye_. It’s bright red with orange swirls and it’s a downright insult to Tolkein, is what it is, but Julia had insisted they come out to this _nerd bar_ because _you’ll find someone to hook up with there!_

Now, she’s looking at him like he’s oversharing. Which, fuck her. She’s always wanting to know the dirty details of every part of his life that he _doesn’t_ want to share, and now he’s willing to trash his new ex about how— “She told me I didn’t _bite_ her enough, who says that”— and she’s blushing a bright pink and laughing and waving her hands at him to stop. 

James, bless him, is just laughing along jovially. He’s got a whisky neat in his hand, and he looks out of place for somewhere with cocktails named after Doctor Who episodes, and he had rolled his eyes fondly (Quentin assumes) when he and Julia had been disappointed they had no Fillory-related fare. All in all, he’s being a good sport about Quentin’s belated-birthday-slash-post-break-up-extravaganza. 

“She wasn’t good for you, Q,” Julia says when he takes a break to drink some more. The syrupy texture isn’t as bad on the second gulp. Or the third. Or the— would you look at that, the drink’s done. 

“I’m getting the next round,” Quentin says, standing up. He places his fist onto the table, a _that’s that_ sort of gesture, and James just shrugs. Julia goes to protest, but he boops her nose. “Nuh. I’m just drunk enough that my wallet doesn’t care.” To prove it, he whips out the billfold and waggles his eyebrows. “Besides, _Alice_ always said I was cheap.” 

“Fuck her,” James says cordially. 

“Get some water, Q,” Julia says. She’s only on her second drink— she’s taking it slow, just in case she has to be the one to navigate the subways home. The bar is all the way in Astoria, of all godawful places, and none of them know Queens enough to stumble around it drunk. “For me _and_ for you.” 

“I just can’t believe she _said_ that,” Quentin says again, because he’s on a roll now. He fumbles with the glass he’s trying to pick up from the table. He just wants to bring it back to the bar. Be nice. _Alice_ would always say he was being rude. “Like— Like me not wanting to— To push her around was grounds enough to end a _three year relationship._ And, like, who’s to say she always gave _me_ what I wanted? Like, maybe _I_ want to be pushed around. Did she ever consider _that_?” 

He huffs, nodding to no one, and Julia covers her face with her hand like she’s embarrassed. Fuck her, too. He’s fine. He can talk about this, they’re _adults._

“I’ll take another bourbon,” James says when Quentin leans forward to pick up his empty drink, the ice sloshing against the sweating edge of the glass as he dips two fingers down into it to grasp it. “Thanks, Quentin.” 

Quentin nods and Julia shakes her head when he goes to grab her glass, so he leaves her alone. He takes a deep breath and centers himself. The bar. It’s like, fifteen steps away, tops. He puts one foot in front of the other until his chest is hitting the edge. 

It’s a crowded place, for somewhere advertised as a nerd hangout. He supposes there are a lot of nerds in Astoria. The bartenders are all too hot for him, just the picture perfect wet dream for nerds. One of them, a girl with bright blue hair and several piercings and visible tattoos, and _curvy_ , like Alice had been curvy, fuck Alice, is busily flipping cocktail shakers and schmoozing with some neckbeards down the middle of the bar, and he waits for her to turn her attention to him. There’s no rush. He still has to decide whether or not he wants another _Han Shot First_ shot or if he wants to branch out into some Spider-Man themed drinks. 

He’s deep in that thought process when someone presses up beside him, also trying to get the attention of the bartender. “Hey,” he says weakly as the woman pushes in front of him, “I was—” 

Whatever he was about to say dies immediately on his tongue. 

It’s too hot in the bar, heat being stirred around by the lazy swirl of a lonely ceiling fan, but Quentin feels ice in his stomach when he sees her. _Her._ She deserves the emphasis. 

Her hair is long, brown, in perfect loose curls— the kind that Julia spends hours, he knows, trying to perfect in front of the mirror. She’s got on enough makeup to make it look like she has none on, or just the right amount, or whatever it is— _whatever it is_ , she looks stunning, skin smooth and dewy. She’s so obviously out of the league of anyone here, it’s ridiculous. 

“Are you lost?” Quentin blurts. Because she must be. Very, very lost. 

She just smiles at him and raises her hand coolly. The bartender almost immediately whips her head in their direction and nods, coming over, and the woman turns from him at the last second to lean over the bar. 

“I’ll have whatever he’s having,” she says, thumbing at Quentin, and then turns and raises her eyebrows expectantly. “Better make it good, sweetheart.” 

Quentin’s throat goes dry. _Huh?_ But the bartender is looking at him through her blue bangs, raising a black eyebrow up, and even _that’s_ pierced, she’s so hot— Right. Right, the very intimidating woman is waiting. 

“Uh, a bourbon. On the rocks. Two of them.” He puffs his chest out a bit. Yeah, he drinks bourbon. Except he totally doesn’t. At all. The woman raises an eyebrow like she knows as much, but she nods, turning around to smile sweetly at the bartender. 

“Make that a Four Roses,” she says, “and mix his with lemonade.” 

The bartender nods and steps away to make their drinks, going up on her tiptoes to reach a bottle from the top shelf. Quentin watches the amber liquid swirl into fat, round glasses over circles of ice, watches as she squeezes a fresh lemon and muddles it into his before topping it off with lemonade from the spout. 

He’s focusing too much on the poetry of drink making that he almost doesn’t hear the woman say, “So, you want to be pushed around, huh?” 

He’s definitely in a dream. The world seems to slow down, and there’s ringing in his ears, and this woman— this impossibly gorgeous woman, what the fuck— is now slowly, slowly smirking at him, the edge of her mouth curling upward defiantly. 

“Twenty-seven,” the bartender says where she’s holding two drinks in her fists, and reality slams back into him like a train. The woman turns around and grabs her drink, smirking as she waits for Quentin to pay, and he fumbles for his wallet before pulling out a twenty and a ten and telling her to keep the change. 

“Good boy,” the woman says as he brushes past her to grab his drink. It’s low enough that he thinks he hallucinates it, because who— Who _says_ that? Who actually says that to another human being? But when he pulls back, she’s just smiling at him, a curious spark to her gaze. 

“I’m Margo,” she says, extending a hand. 

“I’m—” 

“Don’t,” she says. “I don’t particularly care.” 

“Oh,” he says. He still reaches out and grabs her hand, gives it a shake. Notices how petite it is, how small her wrist is. She’s tiny, he sees for the first time. There’s something about her that makes her presence infinitely larger than she actually is. Larger than life. _Margo._ Even her name. 

“I heard you talking to your friends,” she says. She swirls the bourbon around in the glass, the globe of ice clinking at the sides, and how can he hear that? The bar is so loud, music blaring from an authentic jukebox in a corner, conversations all around them, and yet Quentin can hear the tap of one acrylic nail against the side of her glass as she studies him with those dark eyes. 

“I— Yeah?” he squeaks. “I— I was just—” 

She holds up her free hand. _Stop_ , and he does. He waits for her as she takes the first sip of her expensive whisky, the liquid leaving a shine on her already glossy lips, and he wonders what it would be like to kiss her— not in a way that makes him want to, but in a way that makes him afraid to. Wonders how poisonous she actually is. 

“Come to The Spire,” she says. 

“What?” 

She sets her drink down and grabs at a beaded clutch— has she had that the entire time?— opening it, thumbing through its small pouch before she pulls out a matte black card. Its stock is weighty, almost like those thick credit cards people get when they’re way too rich, and on it there’s an address that looks like somewhere in Manhattan in gold leafed text. The only other thing that’s on it is a crown in that same gold leaf, etched into the card so that when Quentin brushes his thumb over it, he can feel the curves and lines move underneath. 

“It’s good for one visit,” she says. “If anyone gives you shit, tell them Margo sent you.” 

“I—” 

“And honey?” Margo pushes off from the bar, grabs his wrist in her free hand, and leans forward to whisper in his ear. “Don’t make me regret it.” 

With that, she’s pushing away, slipping into the crowd like a mirage, one second there, the next second gone. 

Quentin stares at his drink, the last remaining evidence that anything had happened at all, and the card in his hand, mocking him with its simplicity. 

He’s far too drunk for this. 

* * *

This is how Quentin Coldwater finds himself Googling _am I being sex trafficked?_

“You’re overreacting,” Julia says. He’s got his phone propped up against a couple of books on his desk so he can see her while he types on his laptop; she’s got her screen angled up somewhere while she’s cooking, cracking an egg into a pan on the other side of the line. 

“I’m not overreacting.” He’s _not._ He’s prone to a good overreaction, sure, but this is different. This time, there’s a heavy black card sitting on the edge of his desk, staring up at him in mocking indifference, and a web browser tab open for a place called _The Spire._

The website is also all black— sleek, simplistic design that reeks _expensive,_ like they spent half of his yearly pay on web design alone. All the homepage says is _give into desire_ , with the same crown symbol in the center of the page and the same address written on the bottom. 

He turns Julia to face the screen of his laptop, deadpan as he lets her register what’s going on. “Jules, _look_ at this site. Give into desire? What the fuck does that mean?” 

“Is it a sex shop?” Julia asks. Quentin turns the phone back around to watch her as she stirs whatever is in the pot she’s cooking in. Her hair is tied back in a messy bun, skin bare, sweating a bit from the summer heat. He wishes he was there with her instead of cooped up in his sad apartment, surrounded by boxes of Alice’s stuff she has yet to pick up. But James is there, and Quentin’s a little tired of being the third cast member on the _James and Julia Show_. Three’s Company, except with more clinical depression. 

“I don’t know,” Quentin says. “But she just. Handed it to me. As if this was something I’d be _interested_ in.” 

“Well, click around,” Julia says, like it’s that simple. 

“What if I get a computer virus?” 

“This isn’t 2006,” Julia snorts. “I’m pretty sure if this site was going to give you a _virus_ , you’d know. Just don’t download anything.” 

“I’m not,” Quentin mumbles defensively. “I won’t. I just— Why would she give me this?” 

“What did she say? When she gave you the card,” Julia clarifies, finally casting a look at the camera. Quentin sits up in his computer chair and shrugs, trying not to look at the preview image of himself in the top left of his screen and failing. He helplessly moves his hair out of his eyes, huffing. He bends one knee and props his foot up on his chair, folding his body into a tight little curl. 

“She said it was good for one visit, and if anyone gave me shit, tell them she sent me.” 

“Okay, so it could be the mob.” 

“Julia!” 

“I’m joking,” Julia soothes. She looks away to mumble to herself as she searches for a spice, and Quentin hovers his cursor over the _give into desire_ text. It is a link; Julia was right. He moves his mouse in small circles on the screen, around and around, imagining an invisible trail following it. “Just click on it, Q.” 

“Fine,” he huffs. 

The screen takes a second to load. When it does, it’s another plain black page. In hefty serif, the white font reads _Invite only. Membership is now closed until further notice._ Further down on the page, there’s a Google Maps widget pointing out where The Spire— whatever the fuck it is— is. Quentin was right; it’s right in the middle of Soho, off Prince Street. Must be expensive, then. 

Quentin scrolls with two fingers down until he sees what he’s been looking for— an interactive set of questions, including _What is The Spire?_ and _How do I become a member?_ and _What should I bring for my first visit?_ When Quentin clicks on the first question, a paragraph drops down underneath it. 

“Oh,” he says, his breath catching. 

“What?” 

“I— _Why would she give me this?_ ” 

“Q, what is it?” Julia’s full attention is on him now, and she looks excited at his obvious discomfort. Fuck her. “What? Tell me, tell me.” 

“It’s a fucking— It’s a _BDSM club._ ” 

Julia pauses, staring at him through the screen, perfectly still. So still, Quentin wonders if their connection got cut, and he goes to thumb at the screen before Julia is falling back, bursting out into peels of laughter, clutching her stomach. 

“What,” she says through rolling giggles. “ _What!_ ” 

“It’s— It’s a member-only BDSM club! In _Soho!_ ” Quentin squeaks, turning her around to show her the screen. “Right here— It says _Manhattan’s finest and most exclusive BDSM club. Discretion is our top priority_ —” 

“Stop, stop,” Julia gasps through her laughter. “Holy shit, I can’t— _Quentin_.” 

Quentin is blushing bright red where he can see himself in the top left corner of the screen. “What!” 

“It’s— Oh, shit!” Julia moves quickly to do something offscreen. “My water’s boiling over, fuck—” 

Quentin sets her back down against the stack of books and rereads the description as she fumbles with pots. _We are a members-only space accessible by invite. To download our dress code, click here. We are open seven days a week, from—_

“I’m going to ruin this pasta,” Julia laughs, back on screen now. “Holy shit. This is— This is gold. Will you send me this link? I want James to see this.” 

“No,” Quentin replies, a bit too quick. “No, I don’t want— I don’t want this to be a _thing._ ” 

“Why would it be a thing?” 

“Oh, Quentin got invited to a BDSM club, isn’t that so funny, blah blah blah. It’s going to ruin Christmas this year, I can already feel it.” 

“Christmas is like, five months away, Q.” 

“Yeah, and that gives you plenty of time to prepare your, like, entire stand up comedy routine,” Quentin grumbles. “No sharing with James. No sharing with you. We’re— I’m going to throw away the card and pretend this never happened.” 

“I just— Weren’t you just talking about how Alice wanted you to be rougher?” Julia snerks, because she can’t let anything go to save her life. “I just think it’s funny that you, mister Too Vanilla, got invited to a BDSM club. What did this girl think, that you were some secret Dom?” 

“I don’t want to know how you know that term.” 

“We all read _Fifty Shades,_ Q, even if we didn’t want to.” 

“I didn’t read shit,” Quentin says, clicking out of the window. “And I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe I give off— Maybe I give off dominating vibes.” 

Julia stares at him. 

“Uh huh,” she says after a good fifteen seconds. “All right, honey, I have to go. James will be home soon and homemade pasta is not conducive to FaceTime.” 

“All right. Look, I’ll talk to you later.” 

“Later, _Master_ Quentin,” she drawls before she leans forward, pressing the button to hang up. 

And then Quentin’s alone. Alone, with the leaking sink in the corner of his kitchen that keeps dripping and the pile of boxes with Alice’s name on them and the spider plant he keeps forgetting to water. Alone, with the overhead light off and the shadows of the ending day creeping in, with no motivation to get up and turn on the light, with no motivation to do anything other than keep watching GBBO on Netflix. Maybe he’ll jerk off, he thinks idly, sitting back. 

Instead, he picks up the card with one hand, flicking it with the other. It barely wiggles. He flips it in-between two fingers, stares at the deep, matte black cardstock. Watches as the gold leaf catches the light. 

There’s no way that woman— _Margo_ , he remembers, how could he forget— thought he was someone who would be into… _that._ He had just gotten done talking about how Alice had scolded him for _not_ wanting that kind of sex, and he was pretty sure Margo had overheard him. Maybe she was pulling his leg? Making fun of him? Maybe she got off on the thought that he would go home, look up the club, and feel this shame— this burning heat in the pit of his stomach that came when he was out of place. Maybe this was some weird psychological play that she did, giving away these cards to pathetic men in nerd bars, daring them to come into her lair, knowing they never would. Maybe she made fun of him with all of her friends, talking about the weak little guy who she had cornered and made buy expensive whisky, laughing about how he could never dominate someone, even if he tried. 

But that didn’t feel right. 

Margo hadn’t thought he was a… _Dom,_ Julia had said. There was nothing submissive about the way she had approached him. In fact, if anyone was being dominated in that scenario, it would have been… 

Quentin. 

The gold leaf flashes as he remembers her leaning forward, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered _Good boy._ The way she had told him she didn’t care about his name, the way she had said _If anyone gives you any shit._ The way time had slowed when she asked, _So, you want to be pushed around, huh?_

Oh. 

When Quentin looks up from the card, the room is almost completely dark, the sun having set while he was in his trance, and the computer screen blares its blue light at him, beckoning him in. 

* * *

He tries not to let it haunt him. 

He goes about his week as normal. He goes to work at the bookstore, helps middle aged women with their romance novels and college students with their required readings and freckled children with whatever colorful book their heart desires at the moment. He cooks dinner alone, throws away vegetables from the back of his fridge that he hasn’t used in weeks despite having promised to, watches loads of Netflix and Hulu in tattered sweatpants on his couch. He calls Julia every night, listens to her rant about work and home and James and her parents harping on her about getting married, and on Wednesday, he has a too-long conversation with his father about life and the future and coming to visit in the next month. 

Normal stuff. 

But it’s like learning a new word. Suddenly, there are things popping up _everywhere._

It starts with some girl who comes into the store specifically looking for _Fifty Shades_ , which is kind of funny, seeing as that craze died down years ago. He tells Julia of the coincidence on the phone that night, they both laugh, that should be that. 

It never is that simple. 

Because then, he’s watching porn— and he knows that’s like, not great, but sometimes he has to in order to get off, there’s no judgement here— and in one of the related videos, there’s a guy being tied up and gagged in the thumbnail, and his heart skips before he has to quickly click out of the window all together. 

And then he’s overhearing two twenty-something girls on the subway, talking way too loudly for it to be the middle of the day, about how, “He wanted to blindfold me, which was like, kind of sexy, but like, also kind of, like, creepy?” 

And then he’s on Twitter, and there’s a whole thread about safety and BDSM on his timeline from someone he forgot he even followed, and he’s clicking through and reading about how _safe words can be verbal and nonverbal_ , and— 

And it’s just _too fucking much._

Quentin’s used to the universe having its fun with him. Really, he is— God or Ember and Umber or whoever are always poking their fingers at Quentin Coldwater and giggling. He’s used to being some sort of cosmic plaything for whoever is bored up there. But this— this is a new low. 

It all culminates in Alice coming over to pick up her stuff. 

“Hey,” she says at his front door. She’s clutching an IKEA bag in her arms and shifting her weight from foot to foot, and looking everywhere but at him. “I have an Uber, so it won’t take too long. Would you mind helping me…” She waves to the stack of boxes. 

“Yeah,” Quentin says, stepping aside. “Yeah, come on in, we— we’ll get you out of here.” 

She nods, stepping forward and past him. She looks out of place in his apartment, in a way that she never has. If things were different, she would stride right to the couch and perch on the edge, grab his remote and turn on the news while waiting for him to finish making a cup of coffee. She’d kick off her shoes at the door, and maybe even shed her tights, and slowly, all those carefully constructed walls would come down. 

But here, now, she stands like she’s doing her best to keep them high and strong, her body in a pin straight line and discomfort creeping in the back of her features. Quentin’s afraid if he moves too quickly, he’ll spook her. 

This is the first time they’ve seen each other since Alice said _You’ve never been that good in bed_ , since she said _You can’t keep using your depression as an excuse,_ since she said _I’ve been out of love with you for a while._ Said _I don’t even know if I ever loved you._

And he had said _Okay._

Alice shuffles forward to the stack of boxes, grabbing a couple and squeezing them to her chest. None of them are that big, just cumbersome, and he picks the rest up. They’re things like photos and scarves and books that she’s left behind over the past three years, odds and ends that he’s been picking up around the apartment for weeks now, when he gets the time or the energy. He’s pretty sure everything’s there. God, he hopes everything’s there. 

“Good thing we never moved in together, right?” he jokes as he walks towards the open front door of the brownstone. 

Alice snorts, and that’s all the reply he gets to that. 

The Uber driver pops the trunk, and Quentin resists the urge to just drop the boxes in and run away. Instead, he carefully sets them down, makes sure they won’t slip around, and turns to Alice. 

“Hey,” he says, running a hand through his own hair. “Look, uh, I know— I know things didn’t end…” 

Alice puts a hand up. “Quentin, don’t.” 

“I just wanted to say I forgive you,” Quentin rushes out. It’s not what he had wanted to say, but whatever. It gets her to pause, so that he _can_ say, “You know, what you said was really harsh.” 

Alice’s nose scrunches up. The Uber driver raises an eyebrow as he crawls back into his front seat after closing the trunk, shrugging to himself. It’s probably not the first breakup move he’s ever done. Quentin hopes Alice gives him a good tip. 

“I’m sorry it was so harsh,” she says. “But I meant what I said, Q.” 

Quentin feels icicles form in his stomach. “I know,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “No, yeah, of course. But I just.” 

“There’s no need to dwell on it,” Alice continues, barreling on like she’s wont to do when something is standing in her way. “We can be civil around our friends, and maybe one day we’ll be friends, too.” 

“I’d like that,” Quentin is quick to say. He can feel his head flooding with thoughts, his chest and throat constricting a bit. The world around him feels like it’s spinning just a fraction of a second too fast, like if he doesn’t concentrate on keeping his feet planted, he’s going to get thrown out of orbit. “I’ll see you later, Alice.” 

She nods, gets into the backseat, and closes the door. 

Quentin stumbles backwards onto the sidewalk, giving the car an awkward wave. It drives away, leaving him standing there in the July heat, and his skin is too tight on his body. He feels like he’s being stretched thin, pulled in every different direction by another anxious thought, another self-deprecating realization. _I meant what I said, Q._

He barely registers turning around to go into his apartment. Doesn’t remember putting the key in the lock and turning it. Hardly realizes he’s on the couch, now, staring down at his coffee table. 

When his eyes come into focus, all he sees is that black card, staring back at him, its crown filigree mocking him as it dances in the light. 

_Don’t make me regret it_ , Margo had said, and she had sounded serious. 

He takes a deep breath and picks up the card. 

* * *

The outside of The Spire looks like no other nightclub Quentin’s ever seen. A brick building, sandwiched on either side by a book store and a flower shop. The only thing that keeps Quentin from passing by it to continue looking is the sans serif sign in heavy gold, etched into the top of the door frame: _The Spire._ Two floor-to-ceiling glass windows are on either side of the revolving door, and inside is a black leather couch, a tiled floor, and a beautiful tree plant besides what looks like an old school reading desk. 

It looks like a fucking hotel. 

But Quentin looks up, and doesn’t see the towering stories that are normal of NYC hotels. In fact, it seems that there’s just one story above ground. Yet if he squints through the window, he can see there are elevators just past the desk in the lobby— and, yep, the guy at the desk is now looking at him. Fuck. 

He considers bolting to the bookstore next door. He has never been there, and it looks cute, and it’s still early— they’re probably not closed, and they probably won’t mind that he looks like he just stepped out of his undergrad all-black phase. They’ll probably welcome him in with a warm cup of tea and a nice recommendation based on the things Quentin’s been reading lately, and by the time he leaves, he’ll have bought too many books to actually go to the club, whoops, would you look at that? And then he can just come back another day. Any other day. 

Fuck. 

Nothing on The Spire’s website had prepared him for this. Quentin had spent the entire afternoon, naturally, poring over every morsel of information the website would give him, and then even more time on Google, looking at reviews, articles rumoring what celebrities supposedly had been seen visiting the club, even more articles rumoring what really went on inside those four walls. 

He had found out next to nothing. The Spire was New York’s most exclusive— and most secretive— BDSM club. They hired professionals to service their clients (he didn’t belong here, he belonged at the bookstore next door, this was a bad idea, fuck fuck fuck). They had a dress code over fifteen pages long (non-gender specific, which Quentin valued, because apparently they were _a venue for all sexualities and genders to safely and consensually explore their darker side_ , but Quentin didn’t have a dark side, nope, why was he even _here)_. They were member-only, and valued their discretion (thus the rumored celebrities and politicians and members of the British royal family, apparently, and God should be striking him with lightning right about now for even being within five feet of the building). 

Other than that, it seemed like any other nightclub. Safety rules, a cover charge, a standard 21+ rule. Exactly the kind of shit Quentin didn’t get himself into on a Friday night. 

_Wanna come over?_ Julia, buzzing in his pocket. He pulls out his phone and thanks whoever has been listening to him praying for the past ten minutes, because this is exactly what he had been looking for— an out. A beautiful, beautiful out. 

When he unlocks his phone, his wallpaper— still unchanged— stares back at him. Him and Alice, on the Chelsea High Line. A huge smile on his face as she kisses his cheek. A sunset, picturesque, dipping down below the Manhattan skyline. _I maybe never loved you at all._

_Can’t,_ he writes back. _Rain check._ And then he walks through the door. 

The guy behind the desk looks up at him, stoic. “You’re not a member,” he says as soon as Quentin gets all the way in the door. He’s wearing a vest with… nothing on underneath, and on the front pocket is the word— or name?— _Penny_ in embroidery. Hanging around his neck is a gold chain, fitted right against his throat. 

“Oh, um.” Right, members only. Unless by invite. He pulls out the black card. “I— Margo? Sent me?” 

Penny (?) looks at the black card, his face betraying no emotion. “Margo.” 

“Y-yes?” 

“Margo sent for you.” 

“I— She gave me this card and said it was good for one visit. And if anyone asked, to say her name, so, I mean. Here I am. Saying her name.” 

Penny just stares at him for a long, quiet moment before sighing, scooting his desk chair back to open a drawer. “I’m going to need you to fill out some paperwork.” 

Quentin blinks. “Paperwork?” 

“Yes, paperwork— are you fucking deaf or something? Because we have accommodations for that,” Penny says, raising an eyebrow as he grabs a folder that says _First time visitors_ on the front label. “I’m serious. We do have accommodations for those deaf or hard of hearing. You just have to tell me.” 

“No, I— I’m not deaf,” Quentin says after a delay, feeling like he’s walking through muck, like gravity is off and he’s not on the same planet anymore. “I— I’m sorry, this is my first time—” 

“Yeah, I can tell,” Penny says with a snort. He pulls out a pack of papers, stapled neatly together at the top right, and hands them over to Quentin. They’re of a weighty cardstock, thick parchment, and the pen that Penny passes to him must be worth at least thirty dollars. “Fill these out, then get them back to me. Are you going to need to change before you go in?” 

Quentin frowns, looking down at what he’s wearing. He had read the _fifteen page_ dress code over several times, and he was sure he was well within it. “I— No?” 

Penny stares at him for another long moment before closing his eyes, taking a deep breath, and exhaling the word, “Jesus.” 

“It’s not that bad!” Quentin flails, hot shame creeping up his neck. “I— I’m within the dress code!” He is— his tightest jeans and a dark black sweater, too small for him, were perfectly within the standard dress protocol. He had even ran a lint roller over them several times before leaving his apartment. 

“You are,” Penny says, “but you’re going to stick out like a sore thumb. Suit yourself, man. I’m not here to tell you what you should do on your one visit.” 

“Who’s to say I won’t become a member?” Quentin sniffs. 

Penny stares at him again, flicks his eyes down to the paperwork in Quentin’s hand, and then looks him up and down, a lingering gaze. 

“Are you going to be meeting with one of our Doms or Dominatrixes tonight?” Penny asks instead of answering him. “Or are you just going to be enjoying a show?” 

_Show?_ Quentin wants to ask, but figures he would probably get that same blank stare again, and he’s getting really tired of it. “Can I not— Can I not just see Margo?” he squeaks, not sure where the question comes from. 

“Margo and Eliot are our premier Doms,” Penny says, as if reciting off of a script he’s been told to use, “and are not available for booking. However, I can help you choose from anyone in our catalogue. We have plenty of capable, talented Doms to fit your needs.” 

Quentin gapes. His mouth is open, then closed, then open again. Then, “Wh-who said I needed a Dom?” 

Wrong answer. Penny’s back to staring at him like he’s some sad puppy in the window of a pet shop. Or, well. More like staring at him like he’s paint drying. 

Quentin gulps. His throat is so tight. He wonders if Penny would give him water, if he asked. “No, thanks,” he finally says. “I’ll just, um. I’ll enjoy the show?” 

Penny nods, seemingly fine with this answer. “Paperwork,” he says, pointing to the stack of papers. “I can’t let you in without it.” 

“Right,” Quentin nods. “I’ll just. I’ll get to this, then.” 

“Yep.” 

“Okay.” Quentin takes a deep breath before he walks over to the couch, wincing as the leather squeaks when he sits down. He balances the papers on his lap and reads the first page— a privacy agreement. _All guests are protected under our Anonymity Policy. There will be no photographs or videos taken within the club. Cell phones will be left at the door with our concierge_ — 

“You’re going to take my cell phone?” 

“Yep,” Penny says. “Believe me, I won’t look through it. Something tells me yours isn’t worth it.” 

Quentin frowns. The next page is a fucking _non disclosure agreement._ Then he’s getting into paperwork having to do with liability— _We are not responsible for any consensual injuries sustained in play—_ and one page that just says _I am of a sound mind and hereby understand what I am entering into when attending events at The Spire._

The page feels like it’s mocking him. _Sound mind._ Quentin frowns down at it for long enough that Penny must notice, because he finally hears Penny say, “Is there a problem?” 

“I— Just this page. About the sound mind and shit.” 

“We don’t wanna be responsible for you having a mental breakdown,” Penny says with a shrug. “Put on your big boy pants and sign it.” 

Quentin frowns and looks down at the page again, clicking the pen. He presses the _Q_ into the page, watches the black ink flood onto the heavy paper and curl into the rest of his name. He wonders if this is something that’s going to come back to haunt him. Wonders if he just signed his soul away to the Devil. Or Penny. They could be the same person. 

“I’m finished.” Quentin stands. His legs feel like jello as he walks to the desk, the tile floor clicking underneath his nice shoes. They were the best ones Quentin could find— ones he wore on job interviews. He didn’t know what else to wear. He didn’t want whoever was here seeing his sneakers and saying, _Look at him, he has no idea what he’s doing here. He doesn’t belong here._

But they’re going to say that anyway, he’s sure. Holding these papers in his hands, he’s never been more sure of anything in his life. “Are you sure I can’t just see Margo?” he asks when he gets to the desk. “I— I don’t really know what else to do.” 

“Look, man,” Penny says, finally looking at him in the eye, “get a drink. Talk to some people. Watch someone get tied up on stage. Then you can go home, say you’ve been to a BDSM club, and know more about yourself than you did before you entered here.” 

“Oh,” Quentin says. “Okay.” Put that way, it sounds so simple. 

“Just don’t waste anyone’s time,” Penny says. “And you might need one of these.” 

From the drawer underneath where he had pulled the papers, Penny pulls out a thin gold chain. He hands it to Quentin, who stares at it with wonder. “Do you need help putting it on?” Penny asks, genuine, and Quentin shakes his head. It’s a collar, he realizes faintly. Not like the ones he’s seen online, but one like Penny’s wearing— one to mark him. Mark him as a submissive. 

He wants to throw the collar back, tell him there’s been a mistake and that Penny’s read him all wrong. That Alice was wrong, and everyone else was _wrong_. That he wasn’t some meek or timid guy who couldn’t fight for himself. 

But then he looks at Penny, staring up at him with a raised eyebrow. Easily the most intimidating person Quentin’s seen in years, with an arrogance so cool and composed, something Quentin will _never_ have. And he’s wearing a collar, too. 

With shaky hands, Quentin undoes the clasp and raises it to his neck. He closes his eyes as he finds the closure with his fingers, pushes the hook through the small circle, and clicks it shut. 

* * *

The Spire is actually downstairs, Quentin quickly learns. He rides an elevator down to a long hallway in the basement. There are rooms lining the wall, each with matte black doors, with signs that say _Do not disturb_ on some of them. “It’ll be the last door in the center,” Penny had said, and so Quentin gulps and keeps his gaze straight ahead of him, walking to the end of the hall where there’s two double doors, music bleeding through the walls. 

He opens the door to find a pretty standard bar. Everything is dark and elegant— ornate golden sconces line the walls, and the bar itself is a deep mahogany, ornate and yet unassuming. 

The main attention draw is the stage at the end of the room. There’s a woman standing there in high-waisted leather pants and a flowy shirt, her raucous curls loosely hanging down her back, and she’s inspecting another girl wearing only pasties and nude-colored underwear, on her knees in front of her. In one gloved hand, the Domme has a lit candle, flickering in the low light of the club, and with her free hand, she winds her fingers into the submissive’s hair and tugs her so her throat is exposed to the ceiling before slowly, _slowly_ tilting the candle until a bead of wax, sparkling in the spotlight, drips down onto her breasts. 

Quentin can feel the gasps of some of the crowd. There’s a good amount of people watching, just like him— moths drawn to their own demise. But others still are drinking, mingling at booths, dancing at the other end of the club. Quentin doesn’t notice how he’s stepped forward until his hip is hitting a bar stool. 

“First time here, huh?” 

Quentin looks up. 

The music goes quieter. The lights go dimmer. Somewhere, Quentin distantly feels the smooth leather of a bar stool under his hand. But here, where he is, there’s only this— this gorgeous man, staring at him with swirling hazel eyes. Messy curls frame his face, tousled just so they fall into his eyes, but not enough to distract from his facial features— regal, with a square jaw and a thick nose, a Greek statue standing amongst mortals. He’s dressed in a sheer white, silk shirt with horizontal white stripes, chest hair peeking out from where the V of the neckline dips low, high-waisted pants cinching in to show off the curves of his thighs, his hips. 

He’s the most beautiful person Quentin’s ever seen. 

“Don’t worry,” the man continues, as if Quentin isn’t having a crisis right in front of him. “It’s a lot to handle for even our frequent guests. So different from the outside world, you know?” 

Quentin opens his mouth. He’s sure an answer will come out, if he just gives it a second. 

It never comes. The man stares at him with a growing frown, and then he shrugs. Quentin’s heart sinks low into his chest. “All right,” the man says. “Suit yourself. I suppose they let anyone in here, these days.” 

_What?_

“Excuse me?” Quentin says, his mouth finally on the same wavelength as his brain. “I— What did you just say?” 

The bartender turns back to him, cocking an eyebrow. “Not that you’re not cute,” he says after a long moment assessing Quentin, dragging his eyes up and down Quentin’s body, “but I thought we were holding ourselves to higher standards. Usually, our clients can form a sentence.” 

What the fuck. 

This guy was an absolute _dick._

“I was invited here by Margo,” Quentin says, puffing out his chest. “I have as much of a right to be here as anyone.” 

“Margo?” The bartender chuckles. There are a couple of people watching them, now, but the bartender doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, he preens under the attention. “Huh. I thought she was done trying to find more pet projects around the city.” 

“I’m not— I’m not some _pet project._ ” 

“Let me guess, kitten,” the bartender continues, as if this is all amusing to him. “You’ve never seen the mean end of a whip, have you?” 

“I—” Quentin flounders, his face burning hot. “ _Fuck you._ ” 

“Oooh, good retort,” the bartender says, clutching his invisible pearls. “They teach you that in finishing school?” 

Quentin’s face is bright red, he can tell, but he knows the lights are low enough in here— and that every single one of these fuckers has signed a non-disclosure— that no one is going to call him out on it, except for maybe this asshole. “I have a right to be here, as much as anyone else does.” 

“I know this,” the guy says with ease. It’s then that Quentin sees his nametag— _Eliot._

_Margo and Eliot are our premier Doms_ , Penny had said upstairs. Quentin’s mouth hangs open as he reads the small silver nametag over again, as if he’s made a mistake. But no, there it is— _Eliot._

“Must be some Dom, if they have you behind the bar,” Quentin quips back just as Eliot turns to go to another customer. 

Eliot pauses. There’s a flash of something over his face— amusement? Quentin can’t tell, because it’s gone as quick as it comes. He turns to Quentin, walking over to the edge of the bar. 

“Sweetheart,” he purrs, his voice dipping so low Quentin has to lean forward to hear it, “you wouldn’t last more than ten seconds with me.” 

“Prove it,” Quentin says. The words rush out of him like breath before he can even register them. 

Eliot’s eyebrow quirks and he shakes his head, _no, no._ “You don’t know what you’re asking for.” 

“I know what I can handle,” Quentin spits. Where the words are coming from, he has no idea— he has no idea what he can handle, what he wants. Fifteen minutes ago, he didn’t even want to put on a collar. But here he is, pressing his hips up against the edge of the bar so he can lean over it and say, “Question is, could you handle me?” 

Eliot’s eyes flicker to his mouth, then back up. The movement is quick, so quick Quentin almost believes he made it up, but his voice is noticeably thicker when he says, “Figure out what you want to drink, then let me know.” 

Eliot is turning away, then, and there’s something desperate growing in Quentin that can’t stand that. That can’t stand not having this man’s attention on him, that can’t stand the thought of knowing that he’s _lost._ That this man, this _Eliot_ , doesn’t think he’s worth his time or effort or— or whatever. That he’s not _good enough_ for Eliot. 

“Whatever,” he says, his stomach on fire. “They say you’re a premier Dom, but you don’t actually take on clients. Sounds like to me they’re just using you for your looks and not your talents. Must be some disappointment.” 

That, Quentin realizes as quickly as he had said it, was a mistake. 

Faster than he can register, Eliot is leaning over the bar, and he’s got his hand on Quentin’s neck— not the front, though, the back, and he’s _squeezing_ with his palm. Quentin feels his knees go into mush, and if it weren’t for how he was holding the bar, he’s sure he would’ve sank down to the floor right there. 

“Take this,” Eliot snarls. He fishes a coin out from his pocket, gold and shiny as he slams it on the bar, “and give it to Penny at the front desk. Have him give you my paperwork, and meet me in the Throne Room in no more than ten minutes.” 

“The Throne Room?” Quentin squeaks despite his better judgement. “Jesus, you really take yourself too seriously, don’t you?” 

Eliot winds the hand on the back of his neck into Quentin’s hair and _tugs,_ tugs so hard Quentin’s mouth falls open and his cock twitches in his jeans, his stomach rolling in embarrassment and something else, something he doesn’t want to name. Are there people watching them like they’re watching the girl up on stage? What are they thinking, what are they saying? 

“The Throne Room,” he repeats. “If you think you can handle it.” 

Quentin looks down, dizzy, at the coin. The same crown that had been on the card Margo gave him stares back up at him. He looks down at it, then back up at Eliot. He’s tall, he realizes belatedly. Stupid tall. He could easily cover Quentin’s whole body with his own, pin him down somewhere and keep him there. 

“I don’t usually…” Something passes over Eliot’s face, then, something apprehensive and vulnerable. Something that makes Quentin want to prove to him he can be good. Eliot shakes his head and turns to the other client at the other end of the bar before Quentin can figure out what just happened. 

His throat is dry. _Don’t make me regret it._ He picks up the coin. 

“And by the way,” Eliot says as Quentin is pushing off from the bar, “if you don’t show up, no one will blame you.” 

Quentin’s eyes sting. He huffs, clutches the coin, and stalks out of the bar. 

* * *

Everything’s worth it just to see the way Penny’s eyes widen when he plops the coin down on the desk.

“Paperwork?” he asks smugly. Penny just rolls his eyes, mutters something about _fucking newcomers_ , and grabs a folder marked _Eliot._

The forms in there aren’t much different than the ones he had signed before. A non-disclosure, a form about sexual health and safety (Eliot would only have sex with condoms, got tested once every six weeks, had proof of STI status available upon request), a similar form that required his STI status and information about the last time he had gotten tested or had sex without a condom, and a similar liability form stating that injury _may occur as part of play, only within consensual parameters._

“I’m beginning to think BDSM is just paperwork,” Quentin jokes when he drops the stack back off at Penny’s desk.

“You would be correct,” Penny says dryly. He opens the desk drawer above the one with the paperwork and fishes out a silver key. “If you lose this, man, I swear to God,” he mutters, mostly to himself, putting it into Quentin’s outstretched palm. “You’ll need the key for the elevator to work. Insert it, then press the button. It’s the lowest floor.”

Quentin nods. “Key, button. Got it.”

Penny looks him up and down one last time, a final survey before he’s waving his hand, attention turning back to the iPad playing _What We Do In The Shadows_ on the desk. “Don’t fuck it up,” he says as he puts his airpods back into his ears.

Quentin’s not going to fuck it up, that’s for sure. Quentin fucks up a lot of things in his life— getting out of bed and showering, social interactions on a daily basis, transfers at the Fulton Street stop on the subway. But this is one thing he’s not going to fuck up. 

Eliot had looked him in the eyes and said _No one will blame you_. He’s going to prove him wrong.

He gets in the elevator, inserts the key beside the button for the lowest floor, and feels his pulse start to beat like a broken clock as he’s lowered past the basement where the dance floor and bar is and into the heart of the underworld. When the elevator doors open, he’s in yet another hallway, this time leading ceremoniously to one single black door at the end.

This is the part where his feet start to get cold. Where his mind starts to scream _run, and don’t look back, and don’t listen to Penny when he laughs as you’re leaving out the door._ Where he has to remember _Don’t make me regret it_ , and _I don’t know if I ever loved you_ , and the chain sitting around his neck like an anchor.

When he blinks, he’s in front of the door. He takes a deep breath, steadies himself, and pushes it open.

Whatever he’d been expecting, this isn’t it. 

It’s not all leather and chains and torture devices and sex toys. If anything, the room is more like a too-fancy hotel room; clean lines, all very neutral colors, with the largest bed Quentin’s ever seen pushed up against the middle of the back wall. Quentin’s pretty sure there’s a mini-fridge on one side of the bed, and he wants to ask if the bottled water comes for free here or if he has to pay. There’s a door on the side leading to what he assumes is a bathroom, given that there’s a free-standing clothing rack loaded with fluffy robes propped up next to it. Each robe is monogrammed with the same crown that’s on the coin and the card in gold thread.

This place is nothing if not consistent.

Quentin can stand here all night and take in the details— the cluster of candles on the nightstand beside the bed, the mirrors on either side of it lined in gold, the line of lights on the ceiling keeping the room at a mild glow— but there’s only one thing capturing his attention.

The throne.

Right in the center of the room is an antique chair, obnoxiously ornate. Its arms curl into perfect spirals; its legs are a carved wood, swirls and flourishes and extraordinary details etched into the dark walnut. But Quentin isn’t here to wax poetic about a chair.

Not when the person sitting in it is obviously a king.

Eliot is draped over the chair, one leg thrown over an arm, the other foot planted on the floor. He’s sitting with his elbow propped up and his head tilted up towards the ceiling. In one hand is a black cigarette with a gold filter; he brings it to his lips and lets the smoke, liquid and lazy, leak from his lips. He looks like he’s posing for a painting, some sort of study in hedonism and luxury and opulence, and Quentin feels like he’s interrupting art. The same feeling he had in the bar rushes back— that this is the most beautiful person he’s ever seen.

He feels stupid in his sweater and jeans combo. Somewhere, Penny is laughing at him.

“Lock the door,” Eliot drawls. He’s not looking at Quentin, gazing at the smoke cloud curling from his lips, and Quentin feels hot all over. Wants Eliot to look at him, to pay attention to him, but also wants to curl away in the darkest corner of the room and wait until it’s safe to come out.

He turns back and locks the door. _Click._

“Your name?” Eliot’s voice sounds like it’s right in his ear and far away all at once. Quentin’s lost in the same sensation he’d been feeling earlier, drawn to the woman on stage, pushed up against the bar with Eliot’s hand on the back of his neck, like he’s both in and out of his body at the same time.

“Quentin,” he says as he turns around.

“Quentin?” Eliot’s gaze finally snaps to him, then, and he has a look of incredulity on his perfect face.

“It’s— I mean, it’s a really— It’s not a _common_ name, but—”

“You’re late,” Eliot cuts him off. He finds an ash tray somewhere on the end of the bed and stubs out his cigarette after one last indulgent draw of smoke into his lungs, adjusting in the chair so he’s sitting forward.

That’s when Quentin registers what he’s wearing— a blood red robe, sheer enough that, when he steps a shaky step closer, Quentin can see the outline of Eliot’s chest, the dark hint of hair. Other than that, he’s only in tight, dark grey briefs.

“I,” he starts, his throat dry. Is it hot in here? He coughs, stands up straight, tries again. “I had to do your stupid paperwork.”

Eliot raises an eyebrow, the corner of his lips twitching. “Stupid?”

“I told the guy upstairs, I don’t know what’s quite— I mean, I guess some people might find paperwork sexy,” Quentin says with a shrug. “But I expected this to be less like a business transaction and more…”

He trails off. He actually has no idea what he was expecting.

Eliot’s watching him with a curious look on his face. “More…?”

Quentin huffs and crosses his arms. “Aren’t you supposed to be, I don’t know, blowing my mind or something? Thought I wasn’t supposed to last more than ten seconds with you.”

Eliot’s fingers twitch where they’re resting on his thighs. He spreads his legs a bit, leaning back in the chair. “We’re not even started yet, _Quentin._ ” His name is like honey on Eliot’s tongue. Quentin hears the way it sounds dripped in that deep cadence that is Eliot’s voice and thinks _I’m in so much trouble._

“Well,” he says, because he can’t keep his own tongue from getting him into more trouble, “I’m _waiting._ ”

“There are three rules up front.” The long line of Eliot’s neck is fucking _distracting_ from this angle. It makes Quentin feel like the walls are closing in on him. “One: You do as I tell you, when I tell you. That’s the name of the game here, tonight. I’m in control. I say something that makes you uncomfortable or feel unsafe, you say…?”

Quentin doesn’t realize at first that Eliot’s actually waiting on an answer from him. “Um. I say…?”

Eliot blinks, a blank expression on his face that Quentin can only imagine is his attempt to hide the horror that is knowing he’s invited someone into his room that has _no idea what he’s doing._ “Your safeword.”

“My safeword.” Quentin’s throat is dry. “Yeah, I, uh, I totally have. One of those.” He pauses. “Why can’t I just say _stop_?”

“You can,” Eliot shrugs. “But a safeword is clearer, sometimes. For example, mine is Indiana. I don’t have much occasion to name states during play, so it works.”

Quentin wants to be an asshole and ask _What about Ohio?_ but decides against it. He’s pretty sure he’s already walking on thin ice, here. “Mine’s Fillory.”

If Eliot gets the reference, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he nods. “Fillory,” he says, as if he’s testing out the sound. “So you feel as if you can’t do what I ask of you— not because you’re being a little brat, but because you genuinely don’t consent or feel safe doing it— you say Fillory. I’ll say Indiana if I need to stop. Agreed?”

Quentin’s still processing why the word _brat_ had him shiver like the air conditioning was on full blast, but he nods. “Agreed.” He shifts his weight from foot to foot, crossing his arms over his chests. “Well? That’s it? I just do what you want me to?”

A smirk curls onto Eliot’s face. “Rule number two,” he says, holding up two fingers, “is you can only speak when you’re told to.”

 _That_ was unexpected. “You expect me to— You want me to _not talk_?”

“I see you’re good at following rules,” Eliot says, dry, but the same amused smirk is still at home on his lips. “I want to challenge you. Get you out of your head. Give you something to focus on. You ramble when you’re nervous,” he says, as if he’s got Quentin all figured out, and maybe he does. Maybe he’s got his fist in Quentin’s chest and is squeezing with every word, feeling his heart as it beats out of control. “We’ll see what you do when you can’t try and smart ass your way out of everything.”

“If I remember correctly,” Quentin says, “it’s my _smart ass_ that got me in here in the first place.”

Eliot chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. The distance between them remains cold and unaffected. It feels like miles. Eliot looks down at his fingernails, studies them as he says, “And the third rule? You don’t come until I say you can. No matter how good it feels.”

He looks up at Quentin, then, pins him like a butterfly to the wall with his stare. “And it _will_ feel good.”

And _fuck,_ if Quentin doesn’t believe him.

There must be something in the silence between them that pleases Eliot, because that same smug smirk is back. “Cat got your tongue, Quentin?”

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to talk?” he says back, but his voice is shakier.

“Oooh, good boy,” Eliot purrs, bringing up his hands to do a small series of opera claps, _brava, brava._ “We’re not playing yet. Not until you say the word. You sure you still want to do this?”

Quentin’s never been less sure of anything in his life. He still has no idea how the night is going to go, where Eliot’s going to take him. But there’s something in him, a deep, yawning want, something wild and wanton and worth listening to. Something that says _I still have no idea where we’re going, but here’s my hand._ _Take it. I’m yours._

“If you still think you can handle me,” Quentin says. It sounds like a vow.

Eliot stares at him with fire in his eyes when he promises back, “Oh, I know I can.”

And there it is. Quentin’s invitation to jump off the edge. 

“Okay,” he says. “I’m ready.” 

And just like that, Eliot shifts before him. Quentin can see the moment Eliot goes from a man to a god. His smirk turns dangerous before it falls completely off his face. He leans on the arm of the chair, and there’s a carefully constructed boredom on his face, a haughty veil of _I could be anywhere else_. Quentin’s overwhelmed by it, because he could be. Eliot could have anyone he wanted to, if he just said the word. And here Quentin was, standing in front of him, and all Eliot had to say was… 

“Strip.” 

The air _whooshes_ from his lungs on the back of a disbelieving chuckle. “I’m sorry?” he says. 

Eliot holds up one finger. “I think you’ll find you won’t like it when I have to repeat myself,” he drawls. 

Quentin frowns, looking down at himself. His sweater is from H&M, for gods’ sakes. His clothes aren’t exactly conducive to a strip tease. 

_You do as I tell you, when I tell you._

Fuck. 

Quentin hesitates for a couple of more seconds before he nods to himself, reaching up to grab onto the back of his sweater and pull it over his head, toss it to the side. 

“Slowly.” Eliot’s voice cuts through the silence. Quentin can hear his heart ticking like a clock in his chest, wonders if Eliot can hear it, too. Can hear the ache and the loneliness and the _fear_ , deep within, underneath the exhilaration and hope and the _thump, thump, thump_ that’s keeping anxious time. He can’t bear to look up and see what Eliot looks like, doesn’t want to face his gaze quite yet. 

Instead, he takes hold of the bottom of his undershirt and starts peeling it off, cold air hitting his stomach first, his nipples beginning to harden as he goes _slowly, slowly, slowly_. Then that’s off, too, and joining his sweater in whatever corner of the room they’re landing in. 

One by one, he sheds his pieces of clothing— shoes first, then socks, then his fingers are twitching against the curve of his zipper before finally pulling it down. He gets down to his boxers when Eliot suddenly says, “Stop.” 

_Thank god_ , he thinks. And then he looks up. 

Eliot’s got a hand between his legs, palming the front of his briefs oh-so-casually, and his eyes are trained on Quentin, blown dark and deep with something akin to hunger. When he notices Quentin staring, he smirks to himself and squeezes the hard line of his cock underneath the fabric, eyes locked on Quentin’s in a challenge. Suddenly, there’s no air left in the room. 

“Come here.” Eliot’s voice is velvet, a soft purr that has the hair on the back of Quentin’s neck standing up. He’s stumbling forward before he can even think twice about it, shaky legs carrying him across the room to stand in front of Eliot. 

Up close like this, Quentin can’t deny the desire that’s sparking through his veins. It’s heady, and dangerous, and his head spins as he takes in the flush on Eliot’s collarbone, the way the robe is slipping just off his shoulder. Before Quentin realizes what he’s doing, he’s reaching out, hand resting on Eliot’s thigh. 

“Can I—?” 

Eliot snatches his wrist with his hand, eyebrows raising as he appraises Quentin. “That’s two,” he says, his voice even as he pries Quentin’s hand away from his thigh. 

“Two what?” 

“And that’s three,” Eliot says. 

Quentin frowns, pouting a bit as he pulls his hand back. “I—” 

“Four,” Eliot says, and his lips twitch into a smile. “Quentin, Quentin, Quentin. Have you forgotten the rules already?” 

Hot shame supernovas through Quentin as he realizes what he’s done wrong. Rule number two had been not to speak, hadn’t it? And here he is, running his mouth. He bites his bottom lip and shakes his head _no._

“Good,” Eliot says. “Wouldn’t want this to be too hard for you to do, right? You said you were able to handle it.” 

Quentin purses his lips. _Fuck you._ But Eliot is right, in a way— he had said he was more than ready to deal with whatever Eliot had to dish out to him. If that just meant staying silent for a bit, fine. He could deal with that. 

He could be good. 

Eliot’s stopped touching himself and is just staring at Quentin, eyes dark and searching, and Quentin squirms under his gaze. He wonders what Eliot sees in a guy like him, wants to hide away under the curtain of his bangs and oversized sweater. But instead he’s here, standing in only his boxers and the gold chain Penny gave him, completely laid bare. 

It’s terrifying, and intoxicating, and it only gets worse when Eliot tilts his head up to look Quentin straight in the eye. Electric. “Oh, little one,” Eliot purrs, and Quentin’s heart jumps into his throat, “I’m going to have so much fun with you.” 

Eliot stands, then, and motions for Quentin to follow. He rounds the chair and goes to the bed, and when Quentin arrives, he reaches out to brush a hand through his hair. 

“Listen to me closely,” he says. Eliot’s voice is surprisingly gentle, a tender lilt, but no less authoritative, no less regal in its softness. Quentin finds himself pressing into the touch to listen, nodding dumbly. He shouldn’t talk, after all. _Can’t._ Eliot had said no. 

And that means everything, suddenly. 

“I’m going to spank you,” Eliot says. It’s a matter of fact, and Quentin stumbles back a bit, eyes widening like a doe caught in the headlights. “If you need to use your word, I won’t blame you,” he adds, watching Quentin for a reaction. 

Quentin’s… seen stuff like this. Mostly, he’s watched it in porn where a guy has a girl riding him, and he spanks her as she bounces on his dick, and she moans like it’s the best thing ever. He had thought, briefly, about doing it with Alice— back when she was still asking him for stuff in the bedroom, before she had just given up on him— but he never felt right doing it. Never felt good about potentially _hurting_ her. 

But now, with the tables turned? Quentin’s thinking of the way the girls in the videos squeak and moan, how their asses redden and their muscles clench, how they gasp and speed up and genuinely _love_ it, sometimes, and is it hot in here? Did the air conditioner get turned off?

Quentin shakes his head _no,_ and Eliot smiles. 

“Good,” he purrs. “I want you to bend over the bed for me, ass up. I’m going to give you fifteen— ten to start, then one for each mistake you made, plus one to make it a nice, round number.” Quentin’s head is spinning, and _oh_ , is he supposed to be moving right now? He can only nod and do as he’s told— isn’t that the point of this?

He’s good. He can be good, for Eliot, right now, if he just does what he’s told. If he just drops down onto his elbows on the cool grey sheets and pushes his ass out, knees pressed against the side of the bed. If he just stays quiet, doesn’t start rambling the way his head wants him to, miles a minute and filled with questions and doubts and fear. 

So he does. 

Eliot hums his approval from behind him and reaches out to rub his back. Quentin arches into it, feels the warmth of his palm and thinks, _that’s about to_ — No. He focuses on his breathing instead, little exercises his therapist gave him, sucking in deep breaths and letting them go on heavy sighs. 

“Take your time,” Eliot murmurs, as if he knows. As if he’s crawled inside Quentin already and figured him out. It’s— irritating, yes, because _who does this guy think he is_ , but it’s also comforting, keeping his feet on the ground and his head above his shoulders. Eliot _knows_. Quentin can trust him. 

When Quentin’s breathing has evened out, both of Eliot’s hands go to his hips and start tugging his boxers down. Quentin wants to close his legs, to be embarrassed by the way his cock is starting to get heavy and hard between them, but Eliot’s voice sounds awed when he says, “Oh, baby, I’m going to hurt you so fucking good,” and that’s more than enough to still him. 

Eliot’s palm is warm as he grabs a handful of Quentin’s ass. “Just warming you up,” he says, and Quentin’s glad his face is practically down in the sheets, because he’s sure it’s bright pink. He squirms, wants to huff _get on with it already_ , but. Quiet, right? He can be good. 

“I want you to count,” Eliot says, and his thumb is dipping into Quentin’s crease, causing him to gasp and push back, _fuck_ , “but don’t say anything else except the number. Can you do that for me, Quentin? Nod.” 

Quentin nods, because what else is he supposed to do? His cock is already hard, jutting out against his stomach, having taken an interest in what’s about to happen and _that’s_ something he’s going to have to examine later, how easily Eliot turned him on by saying _little one_ and _baby_ and _I’m going to have so much fun with you._

“Good,” Eliot praises. It melts Quentin’s spine, every time he says it, like Eliot is calling _him_ good. Like Eliot is saying he’s okay, he’s perfect, he’s everything that Eliot wants in a partner, and it’s so different from anything Quentin’s ever felt with anyone, has never felt _good_ for anyone. And this is for _Eliot_ , the most beautiful person Quentin’s ever seen, and he gets to be good _for_ Eliot. It’s a lot. It’s almost too much. It’s making his head spin. 

And then Eliot’s hand lands on his ass. 

It’s a light smack, but it’s still enough for the sound to ring out in Quentin’s ears. It actually barely feels like anything— it’s more the surprise than the impact that has Quentin jerking forward. 

“One,” he remembers to say. 

“Good boy,” Eliot purrs. And that’s. _That’s._

The feedback in his head actually stops, for a moment, and he trembles and pushes his ass back, _more, please, I’ll be good._

Eliot chuckles, a faraway sound, before he brings his hand down again, and again, and again, warming the same spot up on Quentin’s ass, and he remembers to count each of them because he’s _good_ , good for Eliot. It’s a dull ache that settles into his bones rather than a sharp pain, more akin to a sore muscle being stretched slowly. It makes Quentin feel warm. It makes him feel wanted. 

It makes him feel whole. 

“Seven,” Quentin chokes out, ass pressing back into another, _yes_ , fuck, “eight,” and it’s so _good._ His cock jerks against his stomach, precome beading at the tip, and the next slap is _hard_ , sending shockwaves of pleasurepain through him. 

His hips drive down and forward without even thinking about it, cock dragging against the soft sheets, and _oh, hello._ The friction there is maddening, and he’s so hard, and when he goes to push his ass back, his cock just drags against them, and Eliot won’t notice if he just— he can just move his hips, just a little, just to take some of the edge off— 

And suddenly he’s seeing stars as his hair is _yanked_ , his body being pulled upright, back against Eliot’s chest, and Eliot is growling in his ear, “Thought you were going to be good for me, baby.” And Quentin nods— he _is_ , he is good, he’s not even talked back once, has done everything Eliot has said— he can be _good_ — 

“Q,” Eliot purrs, and the nickname rolls from his lips like a prayer. Everything Eliot’s saying is sending Quentin further down the rabbit hole, his voice like honeyed poison, sweet and smooth and deadly. His hand is on the center of Quentin’s chest, now, pressing him back into Eliot. 

“I told you, you’re not to come unless I tell you to.” 

Quentin can’t help himself. “I wasn’t,” he protests, weak, trying to turn in Eliot’s arms to look at him, to plead his case. Eliot shushes him, so gentle, so calm, it’s making Quentin’s whole body _ache_. “Please, Eliot, I—” 

“Shhh,” Eliot murmurs into the shell of his ear. Kisses there, sending little champagne bubbles of electric shock all down his spine. “What did I say about talking, sweet boy? You leave that up to me. Remember?” 

Quentin nods, feeling silly. “I’m sorry,” he says without thinking, and then winces, because _fuck._ Fuck, why can’t he be good? Why can’t they go back to the part where Quentin _was_ good? Why can’t he just let go all the way, let Eliot take the lead, give over to Eliot? What’s holding him back? 

Eliot shakes his head, rubbing his nose into Quentin’s neck with a sigh. “What am I going to do with you, honey? I’m just going to have to paint your ass nice and red for me, aren’t I?” 

Quentin can’t help the whimper that escapes from his lips, and he nods, maybe a bit too eager. “What number did we stop on, Quentin? You can answer.” 

“Nine,” Quentin says, still hesitant to talk, wanting to get this right. 

“Then you’ll get nine more,” Eliot says before he pushes him back onto the bed, into the same position he was in before. “But this time, I think we’ll use something stronger.” 

The bed dips as Eliot gets up, and Quentin feels the loss of his presence almost immediately. In, out, in, out, he has to remind himself, has to keep breathing the way he’s been, in, out, in, out. It’s not long before Eliot’s back, leaning against the bed again, and Quentin wants to twist around to see what’s happening but he’s not been told to, has he? So he just waits, waits for what Eliot has to give him. 

“Good boy,” Eliot praises again, and as Quentin melts down into the bed, Eliot’s hand comes up to rub at where his ass is already just a bit sore, where little pins and needles of pain spark up at the touch. “This is going to hurt more, okay? Count from one. Use your word if you need to.” 

And then the paddle comes down onto his ass. 

Quentin knows it’s a paddle by the way it feels, but one twist of his head confirms it, and he cries out in shock. It shakes his bones, it makes his knuckles go white in the sheets, it _hurts_ , but then there’s nothing but silence in his head, _oh_ , and he can barely remember to say, “one.” 

Eliot immediately is praising him, “good boy, just keep counting for me,” and Quentin whimpers and buries his face in his hands where they’re clenched in the sheets, has to remember to keep his hips up off the bed. His cock is so hard it’s aching now, and since when did he get off on pain? 

But maybe it’s not the pain— maybe it’s the way that Eliot kisses his shoulder blade, murmurs, “take another for me, sweetheart, come on,” before he smacks him right across the center of his ass with the paddle. Maybe it’s the way there’s a steady hand on his back as it bows, a calm voice shushing him as he cries out, a warm presence right behind him, ready to catch him if he falls. 

“So beautiful,” Eliot praises from behind him. “Taking it so well, darling, just a few more,” and he brings the paddle down, it hits his skin, it makes his whole body tremble like an earthquake, it feels _so good_. 

Quentin keeps count, “seven, eight,” his voice shaky and foreign and somewhere far away. He feels so cracked _open_ , so exposed, so raw and uninhibited and vulnerable. He pushes his ass back, _one more_ , wants to take all Eliot wants to give him, wants to be _good_. 

Eliot hisses in a breath behind him, murmurs, “Yeah, baby, I got you,” before he brings the paddle down over his ass one more time, the hardest smack yet, and Quentin scratches at the sheets, gasps for breath, feels his lungs burn. 

“Nine,” he breathes, a prayer. They’re done. 

Eliot gets an arm around his waist and pulls him back upright, back to his chest again, and noses at his neck as he presses praise into his skin. “That’s good, Quentin, you’re so _good_.I’m going to finger you now, okay? Get you nice and ready for my cock,” and that has Quentin gasping for breath again, head spinning. 

His hips press back into Eliot’s, feels the hard line of his cock against his ass, feels how _big_ he is, how hard he is. Fuck, Quentin _did that_ to Eliot— to _Eliot_ — and now Eliot is going to fuck him, because he’s good, he’s _good._ “Please,” he gasps out without thinking, grinding back onto his cock, not caring how desperate he’s acting or— sounds— 

Fuck. 

“Quentin.” Eliot’s voice, a low challenge. “Am I going to have to gag you?” 

Quentin shakes his head _no_ , because that— that doesn’t feel right, doesn’t feel like something he’d want. He just— he has to learn how to be good, all the time, has to learn how to make this _good_ for Eliot, just. Has to turn his brain off. 

“Please,” he pleads again. “I can’t— I can’t turn it off. I can’t—” 

Eliot shushes him gently, rubs a circle into his hip with that big hand of his. It covers his entire hipbone, splays up so his thumb is on Quentin’s stomach, and his fingertips are so _close_ to his cock, and Quentin just— grinds back again, needs to _feel_ him. “Shhh, be still,” Eliot purrs into his ear. “I need you to be still for me, Quentin,” and Quentin obeys, stills himself, and they’re both caught in the quiet of the room, listening to Quentin’s panting breaths echo off the walls. 

Eliot’s lips are brushing against his neck, just barely, his face turned to press his next words into the space behind Quentin’s ear. “You can be good, Quentin, I know you can,” and Quentin. Quentin _sobs_ , shakes his head, feels the tears prick his eyes, because— 

“I can’t,” he fumbles out. He can’t turn his brain off long enough to make this work. Even with the perfect pain and the _want_ to be good, Quentin can’t stop messing up. He only had _three rules_ to follow, how is he this bad at this? 

But Eliot’s pressing a kiss behind his ear and squeezing his hip. “You can,” he says. “Look at you. You’ve been still for me this whole time, gorgeous, doing just what I asked, even though I know you want to feel my cock,” and Eliot’s pressing forward, rolling his hips so that Quentin can _feel_ how hard he is against his ass, and Quentin’s eyes nearly roll back in his head, he _wants._ “You’ve been so good, and you want to be good for me, right?” 

Quentin nods, can’t help how desperate the jerky movement is, because suddenly, it’s _all_ Quentin wants. He wants to be good, wants to prove to Eliot he can be good. Wants that litany of praise from Eliot’s lips to never stop coming, wants Eliot to keep calling him _sweetheart_ and _darling_ and _honey_ and _good boy,_ wants to prove to him that this wasn’t a mistake. 

“Yes,” he breaks, because he needs Eliot to hear it. To know. 

Eliot just nods and guides him to turn around, running a hand through his hair as they face each other. “You can talk, it’s okay,” he murmurs. “I wanna know what’s going through that mind of yours.” 

“Too much,” Quentin laughs, a bit hollow. “Too much, all the time. I just— I came here, and you’re the best Dom here, apparently, and I can’t even— I can’t even _keep quiet_ for more than _two seconds_ , like some sort of pathetic loser, and I just—” 

His hands are flailing, his mind running a mile a minute, his heart a kickdrum in his chest, when suddenly everything goes blissfully blank. 

Suddenly, Eliot is kissing him. 

Eliot is _kissing him_ , and oh, it’s so. It’s so much and too little, too chaste, just a soft brush of lips together, and Quentin can’t help but squirm closer, close his lips around Eliot’s bottom lip, tilt his head up to get _more._ Eliot kisses and kisses and _kisses_ him, tongue coming out to just brush against his for brief, spark filled moments before nipping at his bottom lip, breaking away for a half second before doing it all over again. Quentin can feel his stubble where he had neglected to shave that morning, can taste the tobacco and smoke lingering on his lips, and his lungs burn with an _ache_ as he presses forward for more, more, _more._

Eliot breaks away, though, his lips spit-slick and pink from the kisses, eyelids heavy and face flushed. He takes a few shaky breaths, runs a hand up Quentin’s arm to his shoulder until his hand is on the back of his neck, squeezing gently, just like he had at the bar. 

“I never…” he says, and Quentin can see it. The momentary crack in the facade. The same slip up he had at the bar, when he had said _I don’t usually,_ right before Quentin had walked away. It makes Quentin want to kiss him again, makes him want to say _fuck this_ , makes him want to take Eliot and run away to a place where all they need to do is this, forever. Makes him want to be _good._

Eliot catches himself with a shuddering breath, pulling back. His hand is still steady on the back of Quentin’s neck, a perfect point of contact, warm, firm. “Focus on me,” Eliot says. His voice is back to the same authoritative cadence, easily falling back into his role, and Quentin wants to bow to him, worship him, follow him anywhere. 

“If you need to talk,” Eliot says, “you can say my name. Nothing more. Nod, Quentin.” And Quentin does. 

He’s grateful to have this, because it means he can turn his face to nuzzle into Eliot’s palm and sigh, “Eliot,” press a small kiss right where his pulse is, feel—hope to feel—the way it jumps underneath his lips.

Eliot takes in a shaky breath before he pulls his hand back. He sets his shoulders, steels himself, that cool air of unaffectedness surrounding him. “Good,” he says, low. “That’s right, just my name.” 

Quentin nods, would do anything Eliot asked of him if he could just have another kiss. He tilts his head up, searching, and Eliot’s eyes spark with something for just a second before he leans down and presses a kiss to his forehead. 

“Come on, sweet boy,” and then Eliot is guiding him to lay back down on the bed, “on your stomach, come on.” He goes, easy, so easily, like Eliot could just manoeuvre him any way he wanted to, like Eliot could just make all his decisions for him. He lays on his stomach on the bed with his ass still sore, still red from the paddle, and waits for Eliot to just take him wherever they’re going to go. Eliot leads, he follows. 

It’s hard for him not to want to rub off immediately on the sheets, but he knows better from the last time that had almost happened. Instead, he folds his arms underneath his head, breathes in, out, in, out. “Good,” Eliot praises from somewhere behind him. The bed dips and then he’s gone, and Quentin can hear the open and close of a drawer from somewhere to his right, and he realizes his eyes are closed, he’s so relaxed. 

“Eliot,” he breathes. _Thank you._

“I’m coming back, darling,” Eliot replies, and sure enough, the bed is dipping down again as Eliot comes to sit on its edge. “You did so well, so good for me. We’re not done yet, little one, gotta get you nice and ready for my cock first. You want it, don’t you?” 

Quentin’s face burns as he nods, desperate, out of his mind with it. He can’t believe how much he wants this. It’s been _forever_ since he’s been fucked, and he had always been too coward to ask Alice to peg him. _Maybe she would’ve liked it_ ,his brain, nasty and vindictive, snarls at him. _Maybe then, you would have—_

“Eliot,” Quentin says, a choked sob. _I can’t._

And because it’s Eliot, because he’s perfect, Eliot seems to understand immediately. “I know,” Eliot shushes him, hand on his back rubbing small circles, “I know, darling, you can’t let go yet. I’m going to get you there, don’t worry. Gonna make sure you get there, I promise. Do you trust me, Q?” 

And there are tears stinging his eyes when he nods _yes_ , frustration and desperation mounting underneath his skin. He feels pulled too tight, feels strung out, _needs_ and needs and needs. 

Eliot’s hands are guiding him up, his hips up off the bed, and Eliot rubs his thumbs into his hipbones. “Look at me, darling,” he commands softly. Quentin’s eyelashes are wet when he blinks his eyes open, _when did they shut_ , and his throat is dry, and it only gets drier when he sees— 

There, in Eliot’s hand, a small silicone circle. Quentin’s eyes widen, his heart pounds, because— Is that— 

“I’m going to put this on you,” Eliot says, “until you can let go for me. You understand? Nod.” 

It’s insane, Quentin wants to _cry_ , wants to ask what he’s done wrong, why can’t they just _fuck_ , but he’s nodding. Eliot knows better, Eliot knows what to do, Eliot is going to take him there and all he has to do is _be good._

And then Eliot slips the ring around the base of his cock. 

It’s tight, tighter than Quentin had been expecting (but then again, he had no idea _what_ to expect, he’s never worn a cock ring before). He scrambles at the sheets, gasps out, his head is _spinning_ , everything is too much all at once, Eliot touching him in the first place almost setting him off, but the heavy ring around his balls is making him feel _insane_ with— With want, or with denial, or with anticipation, or— 

Eliot’s in his ear, shushing him gently. “That’s it, that’s better. Gotta make sure you don’t come for me just yet, okay? You’re not there yet, baby, but you will be. Just gotta give it over to me, darling.” 

Quentin doesn’t know how to give it over to Eliot. His mind is an aching wound, an itch he can’t scratch, a sunburn that sits just beneath the skin, hot from the inside out— it races and questions and _screams_ and that’s all it ever does, ever. But Eliot says it like he can, like that’s something he’s capable of. There’s a belief there, a belief in him, that has Quentin nodding again. 

Eliot’s murmuring something about, “gotta get you ready for me, darling, just stay there,” somewhere from behind him, and he hears the click of a cap being opened in the silence of the room, listens to how erratic his breath is, wonders if Eliot can hear the way his whole body is singing for him. 

And then. 

Oh, fuck. 

_Fuck._

Eliot’s rubbing a fingertip over his hole, around the ring of muscle, pushing just a bit in— the slightest bit, the most teasing amount of pressure— before pulling back to circle it again. Quentin’s legs instinctively fall open wider, and he gasps, pushes back into the touch. 

“Hush,” Eliot says. Quentin can hear the smugness in his voice. “Let me, Quentin.” But he can’t help but whine and push back again, chasing the touch, the way Eliot’s finger is sliding up and down his crack, right over where he’s sensitive and needy and _empty._

It’s been so long since Quentin’s been fucked. In the quiet of the night, sometimes, when Alice was away at work for long hours and he could be alone, he had done this to himself, thought about his undergrad hookup and the boy he had fumbled around with in high school and the guy at the bookstore who always came in wearing that stupid fucking grey beanie and had the most ridiculously attractive stubble. But even that has been forever ago, and Quentin is pleading, “Eliot, Eliot,” falling from his lips, a prayer, a song, a petition to his new god, and it just— It’s too much, he can’t— 

He’s only being worked open to the first knuckle when he has to drop his head against the sheets and sob out a breath. “There you go,” Eliot says, “there you go, baby, good boy,” and Quentin can do nothing but just _take_ him inside him, open up to him, give over to the most primal instinct he has to just be _fucked_. 

It doesn’t help that Eliot’s fingers are ridiculously long, strong and sure and thicker than his own. One finger feels like he’s being split open— uncomfortable and almost too much but so _good_ at the same time. Quentin can’t remember ever feeling this full from just one finger before, not even when Alice had experimentally done it to him a couple of times, not when he was by himself, not with any of the other guys he’d been with. Eliot had a way of making him feel utterly _consumed_ — by lust, by want, by need, by everything. 

“Shhh.” Eliot presses a wet kiss to his shoulderblade again, nuzzles the sweat-slick skin there. Every inch of Quentin feels like it’s being held to an indistinguishable fire. “That’s it, baby,” and he’s pushing another in alongside the first, stretching him out, and Quentin— 

Quentin’s rocking back on his fingers before he knows what he’s doing, fucking himself back onto Eliot’s hand, driving him further in until his thighs are trembling and sweat is dripping from his brow and Eliot hits _right there_. 

“Fuck, _fuck_ me,” Quentin whines into the sheets, pushing back harder, toes curling. He feels so full already, but it’d be so much better with Eliot behind him, pushing into him, _taking_ him— 

“Oh, fuck.” A shaky breath from behind him, and then— “Quentin,” Eliot growls, stilling his fingers. Quentin whines, tries to push back again, get _more_ , but when he does, Eliot pulls his fingers all the way out and suddenly he’s _empty_ , and that’s— That’s not okay, that’s too much, that makes the thoughts even worse and louder and he _needs_ Eliot back inside him, _needs_ him— 

“What did I say about speaking?” 

Fuck, _why_ can’t Quentin get this right? Suddenly, the sheets beneath his forehead are wet, and his cheeks are wet, and his eyes are wet, fat tears rolling down his face and onto the silky grey as his hands go white-knuckled in the sheets. 

“My name only, remember?” Eliot prompts him. Then, after a moment of silence, because Quentin can’t _speak_ , can’t form words right now, he’s not supposed to, he’s fucked up enough, doesn’t deserve Eliot, “It’s okay, baby. We’ll do this as long as it takes to get it right.” 

Quentin starts crying harder when Eliot’s fingers finally get back inside him, and he feels _whole_ again. He nods, finally, an answer to the question he was supposed to answer earlier, focuses on his breathing as he tries to keep his hips still. If he just focuses hard enough, he can be good. 

It’s just so hard to focus when everything is making him feel like nothing he’s ever felt before. Like a live wire, like a string pulled taut, like an earthquake of emotion underneath his skin. 

And then Eliot is hitting _there_ again, over and over, on every other stroke of his fingers inside Quentin, and Quentin goes from crying to panting to whimpering, “Eliot, Eliot, Eliot,” over and over again. Soon after, there’s a third finger joining the two, and Quentin feels split wide open, feels exposed, feels vulnerable, feels _real_ for the first time in ages. 

“Fuck,” Eliot is cursing, his voice like crinkled velvet, smooth with a rough edge. “That’s it, sweetheart, you take my fingers so fucking well, you love this, don’t you? Bet you’re going to be _ruined_ on my cock, darling— No one’s gonna be able to fuck you this good again,” and Quentin _wants_ that, wants to be completely destroyed, for his whole world to turn upside down like it already had been several times that night. 

“Okay, darling, stay with me,” Eliot murmurs, and Quentin wants to laugh, because he’s not going anywhere, he’s sure he’s going to stay here forever, even long after he leaves. A piece of his soul is stuck there, in that moment, he’s sure of it. “I’m going to leave you empty for a second, okay? I promise it won’t be long.” 

Quentin doesn’t recognize the sound that he makes— a whine, high pitched and needy, almost bratty in the way he wants to say _no, don’t stop, don’t ever stop._ But Eliot’s shushing him as he slowly pulls his fingers back and out of Quentin, and Quentin hiccups a little sob into the sheets. 

“I’ve got you,” Eliot promises him. “I’ve got you, sweet one, you’ve been so good. You don’t get my cock yet— we’re not done, baby, haven’t played with you enough yet, gotta get you to let go for me,” and Quentin is pushing his hips back into empty air, teeth digging into his bottom lip as he tries to keep inside the string of pleas that are bubbling up his throat. “But I’m gonna keep you filled, baby, gonna make sure you stay ready for me,” and suddenly something wide is pressing in, something cool and smooth like silicone, and Quentin gasps when he realizes Eliot is putting a _plug_ in him. Keeping him open, ready for him, making sure he stays full. His eyes almost cross, fluttering closed as he pushes back— _yes, more_ — onto the toy. It’s wide, and long enough that it’s just barely missing his prostate, and it doesn’t feel nearly as good as Eliot’s fingers, but it’s grounding him, keeping him from crying again. 

He adjusts to the toy as it bottoms out, the flared base pushed flush against him. Eliot rubs his back and murmurs sweet words of praise, and for a moment he’s floating, just a bit— it stretches out long and sweet like taffy, and there’s _silence_ in his head. It doesn’t last long, however— after a few minutes of Eliot just rubbing his back, he’s pushing back up onto his elbows (when had he sunk down?) and looking back at Eliot with wide, wet eyes. 

“Eliot,” he whines, his voice foreign. _Please._

And though Eliot looks composed, his body still compared to Quentin’s trembling frame, he’s flushed down his chest and his eyes are blown dark, his bottom lip bitten pink. Quentin sits up, gasping as the toy shifts inside him, and turns around, crawling to Eliot. “Eliot,” he breathes again. _Kiss me_ , and his head tilts up, searching for it. 

Eliot gulps, pecks his lips gently before he pulls back. “I’ve got to get you out of that mind of yours, little one,” he says, fondness leaking into his voice that sends a shiver down Quentin’s spine, and Quentin nods because that’s all he wants. Wants to just get lost in Eliot, to know nothing but him. 

Eliot pats his cheek, playful, and boops his nose, and if Quentin weren’t completely at his mercy right now, he’d laugh. This was not what he had pictured BDSM to be— all soft nicknames and gentle hands and teasing. It’s somehow better. It makes him feel safe, cared for. Wanted. _Eilot_ wanted him. Even if it was just for a night, that was— that was more than enough. 

“Get on your knees in front of me, Quentin.” Eliot swings his legs so he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, and it’s then that Quentin flicks his eyes down, down the center of the silk robe Eliot’s still wearing, down the long lines of his body, down to where his cock is straining hard against his briefs, a wet spot on the fabric where the tip is, and Quentin suddenly feels a new type of _empty._

Quentin swallows around a dry mouth and nods, licking his lips as he crawls off the bed. His legs feel like jelly, so he sinks to his knees fairly easily, hisses when he sits back on his ankles from where his ass is still bright pink and freshly sore. Eliot spreads his legs and Quentin immediately scoots closer, eyes locked on easily the biggest dick he’s _ever_ seen, and that’s just through the fabric. 

Eliot chuckles, reaching down to cup Quentin’s jaw. “Mmm, not yet,” he purrs. “We’re going to get you out of your head, remember?” He guides Quentin to lay his cheek against Eliot’s thigh, where he can smell the heady mixture of musk and cologne and even the soap Eliot must use when he showers, cedar and bourbon and tobacco and oud and burning fire all mixing with warm vanilla, and his eyes are already closing, overtaken by sensation. 

“Good boy,” Eliot purrs. “Just like that. You’re going to stay there, baby. And stay perfectly still for me, hands behind your back. The longer you stay kneeling for me, the more I’ll let you have, okay, darling?” Quentin nods, hands instantly going behind his back, one hand holding the other at the wrist as he blinks his eyes open again to watch Eliot’s face as he strokes Quentin’s hair. 

“Just focus on your breathing,” Eliot says, in a way that is never going to sound the same coming from his therapist’s lips again, and Quentin tries to, focuses on Eliot’s scent and his warmth and the hand in his hair as he settles down to stillness. 

But _stillness_ isn’t his forte, and there’s only a minute blissful nothing before Quentin is fighting against squirming and nosing at Eliot. It only gets worse when Eliot reaches down with the hand not currently in Quentin’s hair and palms his cock again through his briefs, squeezing the hard line, running his thumb over the tip. 

“Eliot.” _Fuck._ Quentin whimpers and noses his thigh, wanting more, wanting to lean forward and run his tongue up the front of his briefs, wants to suck the tip into his mouth and let his jaw drop open and take Eliot into his throat. 

But instead, Eliot tugs on his hair. “Did I mention,” he says, hand slipping from his head and going to his side, where the lube, a condom, and a small remote is resting— and he snatches up the remote, runs his thumb lightly over the buttons, and says, “that every time you mess up, this will happen?” 

And he presses a button, and— 

Fuckfuck _fuck_ fuckfuck. 

Quentin cries out, hands going to Eliot’s thighs from behind his back as the vibrations start inside him— they’re not too strong, but they’re _there_ , and if Quentin was to reach back and try and push the toy further inside him like he _wants_ to do, they would hit him at the exact right spot, and fuck, _why_ are they playing this game instead of fucking? 

Eliot’s talking from somewhere above him. “If you want me to fuck you, you’ll be good. Right, Quentin? You want to be good, don’t you, sweetheart?” Quentin just nods, even if he wants to say _fuck you_ again, even if he’s right back in the same place he was at the bar, all hot anger and indignation and challenging the world and Eliot right alongside it. “I know you do, baby, even if you don’t know it right now.” 

Quentin bites his bottom lip to hold back from screaming out some obscenities at Eliot, because this isn’t _fair_ , he’s done everything he’s supposed to do, within reason, what Eliot’s asking of him is _insane,_ and then Eliot says, “Stay still. If you come, I won’t fuck you.” 

Jesus fucking Christ. 

Eliot lays the remote down beside him again, keeping the vibrations low, and runs his hand through Quentin’s hair again. “Shhh, good boy,” he praises, and Quentin hates the fact that it makes him _melt_ , all the anger fading away. “Hands back behind you, come on. That’s it,” and Quentin trembles as he links his fingers over his wrist again. He lays his head on Eliot’s thigh, closes his eyes, tries to focus on his breathing like before. 

He hears Eliot’s hand moving on the fabric in front of him, but he stubbornly keeps his eyes closed. Looking had gotten him into trouble last time, and if there’s one thing he wants more than anything tonight, it’s for Eliot to _fuck_ him. But after a moment, he starts to hear the sound of slick movement, and he opens his eyes to find Eliot— 

_Eliot._

Eliot’s cock is _perfect._ It’s just the right amount of length and thickness, pink and shiny at the tip, and Quentin has to bite his lip to keep from gasping. God, he hopes that doesn’t count as moving. Eliot notices but just smirks, and his hand slowly works him from base to tip, thumbing over the head, twisting his wrist a bit at the end. 

Quentin’s head is spinning, and all he can think is _Be still be still be still_. It pays off, because in the next raspy breath, Eliot’s murmuring, “Stay still, I’ll give you a taste.” 

He lets go of his cock. His thumb is shining from where he’d been playing with the tip, and he presses it to Quentin’s lips, saying, “Go ahead, you can open for me.” 

Quentin parts his lips eagerly, and Eliot swipes his thumb over his bottom lip— Quentin can’t help but lick at the pad, shudder at the taste, and before he knows what he’s doing, he’s leaning forward to suck his whole thumb into his mouth, moving his lips up and down it, raising up onto his knees to get a better angle— 

The vibrations from the toy go from low to _higher_ , and Quentin gasps as he falls back, Eliot’s thumb retreating from his mouth as Eliot quirks an eyebrow. 

“What did I say, Quentin? Speak.” 

It gushes out of him like a waterfall. “Oh, fuck— Fuck,” he groans, his toes curling at the sensations coming from the toy. “You— You said to be still.” 

“That’s right. And what else did I say?” 

“You— You won’t fuck me if I come,” Quentin says. His voice is a pathetic whimper, his eyes wet again from trying to hold himself back. He’s sure there’s white marks on his wrist from where his fingers are digging into the skin, circling around it and clenching, trying to keep still even though he’s already fucked up. 

Eliot nods. “Baby,” he says, his voice that same saccharine melody it’s been all night, “I’m just trying to get you to let go for me. Go all the way for me, you understand? It’s okay if you don’t, sweet boy— I’ll take you there. You want me to?” And Quentin nods, no question. 

It’s uncomfortable now that the toy is up a notch, and Quentin has to squirm a bit before he settles down and looks up at Eliot with pleading eyes, ready to start. Eliot’s hand goes back in his hair again, his other going back to his cock to begin lazily stroking as Quentin settles. 

Minutes pass, and Quentin manages to keep still. Eliot brings his thumb to Quentin’s lips again, pushes into the velvet heat of his mouth, fucks it in and out slowly before retreating. All the while, Quentin stays _still_ , waiting for whatever it is Eliot wants to give him until finally, finally, _finally_ Eliot is grasping himself by the base of his cock and saying, “Yeah, baby, open your mouth for me— that’s it, just stay right there—” and guiding the tip to his lips, smearing it over Quentin’s bottom lip, pushing it in just a bit. Quentin opens up for him, head spinning at the taste and the smell and the feeling, the way Eliot’s cock stretches his lips, the way Eliot groans when his tongue comes out to lap at the tip. 

And Quentin— Quentin’s never been good for anyone in his life. Not Alice, not Julia or James, not his mom or his dad. But he’s here, and Eliot’s telling him he’s _good_ , and there’s nothing for him to do but just sit still and take Eliot’s cock into his mouth as he’s being fed it, and that’s all he has to do. That’s all he has to do, to be _good_. For once in his life. 

Something inside him just clicks. One minute he’s there, the next he’s… gone. His eyes are shutting, his jaw is going slack, and all he can think is _Eliot, Eliot, Eliot_ , a thrumming song coming from his chest. His knees no longer ache, his ass is no longer sore, his body almost limp as it stays in place, just lets Eliot take and take and take. 

From far away, Eliot’s saying, “Oh, fuck, are you—?” But Quentin’s good. He knows better than to answer, or to move, or to do anything. He just sucks lazily at the couple of inches he’s been given, feels Eliot shudder, keeps his arms behind his back and head still. 

Eliot’s drawing back, then, and he feels empty for a second, and he can’t help the whine that comes from his throat as he blinks his eyes open to see Eliot, wide-eyed and shocked, looking at him like it’s the first time they’re seeing each other all over again. He wants to ask if he’s okay, but he’s good, he knows not to speak. He just blinks and waits for Eliot to compose himself. 

Eliot’s saying, “Oh, baby.” He’s saying, “Come here, you can move.” He’s saying, “Just hold on, love, I’ll turn it off,” and then the toy stops vibrating, and Quentin’s being manhandled onto the bed, onto his back as Eliot brushes his hair back and stares at him like he’s something precious. 

“How far gone are you?” Eliot whispers. Quentin knows better than to answer— he’s good. “What are you thinking of?” 

“Eliot,” he replies, breathless. 

Eliot’s eyes widen again, and he presses kisses to Quentin’s cheeks— oh, that feels nice— and rubs a hand up and down his side before he’s leaning back to take his robe off. Quentin will tell him how beautiful he is, later, when he can talk, because he is. So beautiful, and Quentin’s good for him. 

“I’m going to fuck you now, baby.” Eliot’s voice is shaken, like something’s happened, something’s shifted in the air between them. “Gonna fuck you so good, my little one,” and Quentin’s just. He is— He’s Eliot’s to take, to use, to do whatever he wants with, and when Eliot guides his legs open to grab at the toy, fuck it in and out of him a few times, Quentin can only pant and move his hips back and shake. “That’s it— fuck, you’re so hungry for it, you _need_ this, don’t you? Needed to be fucked, I could tell the second I saw you— No one else can do this for you but me,” and Eliot’s taking the toy out of him. 

Quentin scrambles, pawing at his arms, eyes wide. He’s good, he’s _good_ , but he needs, too, and Eliot grabs his thigh, pushes his legs further open and hitches one around his waist before he’s grabbing the condom with shaky hands and rolling it onto his cock. And then he’s lining up with Quentin, resting their foreheads together, murmuring, “You only do this with me,” and pushing in. 

And it’s. 

It’s slow, Eliot taking the time to let Quentin get adjusted, and then it’s _achingly_ slow, his hips dragging forward and back, his cock bottoming out on every thrust, and Quentin’s whining his name over and over and over again. Eliot’s kissing his neck, saying things like, “just let go, baby, that’s it, I’ve got you,” into his ear, and every time he murmurs how good Quentin is, how lovely he is, how pretty he is, Quentin just falls deeper, deeper into whatever thing he’s falling into. 

And then it’s fast, and _rough_ , and Eliot’s fucking him like he’s been wanting all night, like he’s been begging for since they first started, like he dreamt about lifetimes before, when he first saw him at the bar, blue light catching his hazel eyes in the dark. And Quentin’s good, lets him take and take and _take_ , fuck him until he’s practically bent in half, his ankles up near Eliot’s shoulders. “Quentin,” Eliot breathes, like it’s the only word he knows, “Quentin, _Quentin,_ ” and Quentin replies in turn with his name, head thrown back, nails digging into Eliot’s back. 

“Look at you,” Eliot gasps as he looks between their bodies at where his cock is disappearing into Quentin, “I can’t, I _need_ —” and then his hips are snapping harder, hand going to Quentin’s hair to _tug_ in time with his thrusts, and Quentin’s seeing stars, hearing gods, feeling the earth split open beneath him. 

It’s _so good._

And then Eliot’s reaching down, slowly his hips just a bit and chuckling at Quentin’s whine, and grasping the cock ring still around Quentin and saying, “You gonna come on my cock, baby? Gonna be good for me one more time and give me what I need?” 

And then he’s pulling it off, and Quentin’s pawing at Eliot again as Eliot starts _fucking_ him, sweat dripping from his curls, chest red, breath coming in pants, the slide of skin on skin the only thing in the room. “Eliot,” he whimpers, _I can’t, I need,_ “Eliot—” 

Eliot nods, presses their noses together. “Sweet boy,” he praises, nodding, “you can come, come on, come for me, Quentin—” 

And then his lips meet Quentin’s again, and Quentin’s coming. He’s _coming_ , fists tangled in the sheets, sobbing into Eliot’s mouth, cock jerking and sliding against Eliot’s stomach where their hips are joined, untouched and leaking and twitching. He’s coming harder than he’s ever came in his life, clenching down around Eliot’s cock inside him, pushing his hips back, driving him further in, and Eliot’s making these punched out noises against his ear, whispering his name and _God_ and _fuck_ and _good boy_ , his hips going faster and faster and faster until he stills on top of Quentin, deep within him, and comes, too, and Quentin’s just— 

_Gone._

* * *

When he finally comes back to his body, he’s _empty_. He feels it immediately, feels the way he’s been left open and raw, and he sobs, his head spinning, reaching out for— 

Eliot, who’s there. Eliot, who’s sitting beside him, petting his hair, an army of supplies sitting next to him. Eliot, who’s looking at him like he’s a wondrous thing, special, _good._

“Hey, sweet boy,” he says, soft. He’s got one of those fluffy robes from the rack on him. “You back?” 

Quentin’s mouth his dry. He smacks his lips together, and Eliot grabs a juice box that’s sitting beside him and takes the plastic straw out of its wrapper, stabbing the foil and guiding the straw to his lips. “Sit up a bit for me, baby, that’s it,” and Quentin winces as he sits up on his ass. It’s _sore._ Eliot looks at him apologetically, but not apologetically enough for Quentin to believe that he’s actually sorry for what made Quentin’s ass so sore in the first place. 

Quentin sips the drink gratefully, his head throbbing. Eliot hands him the juice box and guides him to sit against the headboard as he grabs a warm, wet towel from behind him and rubs it over Quentin’s chest and stomach, where there’s dried come _all over him._ Quentin blushes, but Eliot doesn’t seem to be bothered, gently cleaning him up before murmuring, “Roll over onto your stomach for me?” 

Quentin goes easily, pliant and loose, and Eliot begins to wipe down his back, just getting the sweat off of him. The cool breeze coming from the ceiling fan makes him feel at ease. Then a cap is being clicked open, and Eliot is rubbing some sort of gel onto his ass, gently thumbing it into his skin as he says, “So good, baby, so pretty, can’t believe…” 

Things almost take a turn as Eliot’s thumb brushes his crack and Quentin pushes back, his overspent cock trying to give a valiant effort at comeback, and Eliot swears under his breath, pushes the pad of his thumb against his hole before drawing his hand back. “We can’t,” Eliot groans, “Christ, you’re going to keep me here all night,” but somehow, Quentin doesn’t think that’s a bad thing. For either of them. 

He feels brand new. Feels like his skin fits, finally. Feels like he’s been walking around in a daze all his life and now he’s finally opened his eyes, can see everything for what it is. He’s not the Quentin he was when he walked in here. He never can be again. 

Eliot flips him over again, looks down at him with a smile and says, “There are showers, if you’d like.” Then he pauses and a smirk crawls over his face. “You can speak now, you know.” 

Quentin warily raises his hand and flips him off. Eliot laughs delightedly, throwing his head back. 

“I’m okay,” Quentin says. Even his voice sounds different— wrecked, broken, but _better_ , somehow. Eliot had done that to him. Eliot had made him sound like that. It was _good._ “I should— I should be getting home, soon, I guess,” but he’s not sure where the thought comes from. All he wants to do is lay here all night having Eliot pet him, having Eliot tell him he’s pretty and good. 

Eliot shakes his head. “You can stay,” he says, soft. “No one uses this room but me. You wouldn’t be disturbed.” 

Quentin thinks about it for a moment, because it does sound tempting, but— “I have to be at work in the morning,” he says, the real world slowly coming back to him. Eliot picks up a chocolate bar from beside him, unwraps it and cracks off a small piece, holding it to Quentin’s lips. 

He eats a few pieces like that, and then it almost starts up _again_ , Quentin sucking chocolate off Eliot’s thumb, Eliot groaning, “Never did get your mouth all the way around me, did you?”, Quentin shifting closer. But he’s the one to break away, this time, looking apologetically up at him. 

“I have to go,” he reminds Eliot gently. He has no idea how he’s ever going to be able to thank Eliot for what he did. He can’t, not in words, not right now. And he doubts he’s ever going to see him again, and that— 

That makes his stomach go icy, and he sucks in a breath, turning to Eliot. 

“Thank you,” he says, voice tight in his throat. “I— I really needed— Just. Thanks.” 

Eliot’s face goes soft, and he shakes his head. “I never do this,” he finally says, quiet. “There’s just something about you, Quentin, I…” 

Quentin wants him, so bad. And he can have him just for a bit longer, and he leans in, kissing him, lets their lips slide together, their tongues brush, their worries fade away for just another brief moment. Because once he’s out of here, he’s gone. 

Except. 

Except when Eliot pulls back, he nuzzles Quentin’s jaw. “Stay,” he pleads, a voice different than one Quentin’s heard before, all soft sincerity and vulnerability. “Call out from work. I could order us in some food, and…” 

Quentin’s heart thumps in his chest. “Eliot—” 

“Everyone’s probably gone now from the club, anyway. It’d just be me and you here.” 

“Eliot,” Quentin says, heart fluttering in his chest. “I can’t. My meds are at home, I have to— I have to take them.” 

“Oh,” Eliot says, his face falling, but then he nods and gulps. “Right, ah. You said you had to get to work, anyway, so.” 

Quentin smiles and leans forward, kissing him again. “Sorry.” He begins the journey of trying to find out where his clothes are, standing up on shaking legs, catching himself on the edge of the bed. 

Eliot follows him around, makes sure he doesn’t stumble too much, and watches him get dressed. “Quentin,” he says as Quentin is shrugging his sweater on, looking at him with wide eyes. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone I got to go back with the _premier_ Dom,” Quentin teases. 

“No,” Eliot says. “No, I don’t care. Tell everyone, if you want.” He looks so much smaller, now, nervous and flighty, looking around the room before he steels himself, affects that same dominating personality that had been around for the majority of the night. He strides towards Quentin, taking his chin in his hand, and Quentin gasps as Eliot’s hand goes to the back of his neck, squeezes one more time. 

“Say you’ll come back,” he purrs, staring him in the eyes. 

“I— I don’t have another invite, Eliot, I—” 

“Nonsense,” he says. “I’ll have Penny put you on the list. What’s your last name?” 

“Uh, Coldwater?” Quentin squeaks, feeling cornered. 

“Quentin Coldwater?” Eliot teases, shaking his head, the fondest smile across his face. “Just. Say you’ll come back.” 

Quentin wants to say, _I’ll do anything you say._ Wants to say, _I’ll be good for you._ Wants to say, _Only if it’s back to you._

“Only if it’s back to you,” he says, his heart restarting the kickdrum in his chest. 

He only has to wait for a moment. Eliot smiles, brushes their noses together, and says, “Only if it’s back to me.” 

* * *

Later on, as Quentin’s going to sleep, he touches where the collar had been. He can still feel it there.

**Author's Note:**

> ...................... so let me know if you potentially want more in this 'verse???
> 
> also, please check out my other fic (illusion never changed)-- it's a lot more Serious Business but we have fun over there, too, believe me


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